poem of the day 01.04.13

navigator

thinking that i’m done

with the bullshit of the day

i step on the bus with another human

prepared to read some william taylor jr.

imagining the first whisky in my hands

as i’m apt to do

on cold winter nights and warm ones alike

when the bus driver turns to us and says

do you think one of you can help me with the turns?

what do you mean by that? i ask him

the turns, he repeats

this is my first day on this route

and i’ve already messed it up twice

had people yelling at me all day

i look at the other human being on the bus

she shrugs and starts playing with her cell phone

so it’s me again like it’s always me

reluctantly drawn into the plot lines of someone else’s story

i sit in the front of the bus

where the old people usually congregate

the bus driver is sweating in his seat

even though it’s cold outside, cold in here

all he has in this day and age of GPS madness

is a simple paper map of the route

i’m determined to not screw this up again, he says

i’ll do what i can i tell him

forgetting the taylor jr.,

and a carefree ride to the comic book shop

soon the bus starts filling with more and more people

angry ones

the ones busy with the business of trying to get home

bus people who have no patience

for the slightest of mishaps

the bus driver is doing okay

but i’m a nervous wreck

my neck hurts from having it turned at an angle

to watch the black, neon-smeared night

plus i realized blocks into this adventure

that i don’t know the route so well myself

usually i have my head buried in a book

or music on, anything to zone out this part of my existence

shit, i didn’t know that one day there’d be a test

and think of adding bus routes to the stuff

that i should learn by heart

is this the turn? the driver suddenly asks me

i stutter

pop out of my seat

trying to see the bus sign in the shrouded distance

my stomach aching from the fear of being wrong

yes, i tell him

but i’m not sure

he turns the bus anyway, both of us relieved to be right

as we move on

the driver keeps chanting street names to himself

like a mantra

8^th avenue

7^th avenue

6^th avenue

i’m saying them too

like they are prayer beads on a rosary

but he makes the turns without me having to tell him

he knows this route now

i’m happy that it’s coming back to me as well

we’re both learning and relearning something today

getting through the soup of human existence together

when we reach my stop

the bus driver sighs and shakes his head

you did it, man,  i tell him

i wait on him to say thank you

or i couldn’t have done with without you, dude

embrace me like a brother tested in combat

exchange names and addresses so that we can send

each other christmas cards next year

but all he says is

have a good night

unceremoniously opens the door to let me out

before continuing the journey on to the next stop

one that’ll soon become so old

so rudimentary

he’ll wish little pieces of his life away

for something just a tad bit different.